


give love that one more chance

by camellialice



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Fluff, M/M, Pining, canon-compliant threesomes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 02:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18459467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camellialice/pseuds/camellialice
Summary: It’s not like Eliot falls in love with Quentin Coldwater in their first meeting and spends the rest of his life miserably pining after him. That would be ridiculous.It’s more like: Eliot falls in love with Quentin Coldwater in their first meeting, realizes it, and then files that information away to never ever act upon.(or: they're in a band, and Eliot has a hell of a crush)





	give love that one more chance

It’s not like Eliot falls in love with Quentin Coldwater in their first meeting and spends the rest of his life miserably pining after him. That would be ridiculous.

It’s more like: Eliot falls in love with Quentin Coldwater in their first meeting, realizes it, and then files that information away to never ever act upon.

This is what happens. Due to Richard’s ungracious, untimely, and not at all undesired departure from the band, The Physical Kids find themselves in desperate need of a keyboardist. And due to Margo fobbing the job off onto him, Eliot finds himself sorting through a shitload of demos. When he finally lands on a good one, he schedules a Skype meeting to talk to the guy.

“Quentin Coldwater?” he asks incredulously, because he can’t help himself. “What, are your parents super into ice baths or something?”

The kid’s forehead creases into a frown and oh no, he’s really cute. “No?” he says. “That’s not… how names work?”

While Eliot tries to process the fact that he is apparently talking to an actual puppy in human form, Quentin pulls a keyboard into frame and taps his fingers nervously against the edge. “Um. Would you like me to play something? I can–”

“Not particularly.” Eliot waves his hand in dismissal. “This isn’t actually an interview. You’re already hired.”

Quentin’s jaw drops and his fingers stutter to a halt. “Are you joking?”

Eliot raises an eyebrow. “Do you think I’d bother to joke about this?”

Eliot thinks he keeps his cool remarkably well during the call, but he does vent to Margo later. “He’s _adorable_ ,” he laments.

She glares at him with the force of a thousand suns and says, “Don’t you fucking dare, Waugh.”

 

The first rehearsal is only partially a disaster. Quentin is 15 minutes late (which shouldn’t particularly matter, Penny’s always at least 30 minutes late) and a quivering mess. He talks too fast, tries to shake everyone’s hands, and trips over his literal shoelaces when he meets Alice.

It’s all very fun for Eliot, who can’t decide which is more enjoyable to watch: Margo’s growing exasperation or Quentin quaking under her (admittedly terrifying) gaze. It becomes a little less enjoyable when Margo pulls him aside and says, “Are you actually sure about this guy? This had better not be just because you want to get in his pants.”

Eliot can’t one hundred percent deny that last part, so he just kisses her forehead and says, “Just wait till you hear him play, Bambi.”

And, sure enough, the keyboard seems to steady him. Quentin closes his eyes and exhales into the melody of Bowie’s “Life on Mars” and it is achingly beautiful. As he plays, Eliot is back in Indiana having his heart broken for the first time all over again, and the second time, and the third time too. At the end, Fen bursts into applause, and Quentin looks up searchingly until his his eyes find Eliot’s. Eliot beams and winks at him, and Quentin’s nervous little smile widens into a grin.

“You’re pretty damn good, Q,” Margo says with an approving nod. “But you need to pussy up.”

 

They’re not a particularly big deal – for the moment, at least. They’ve got a few singles out and a small but devoted fanbase. But Margo has bigger dreams. “We’re gonna be fucking stars,” she always insists, with a fervor that suggests she’s willing to kill whomever necessary to achieve it. (This is why Eliot had insisted on hiring Josh: it was important to him that the band be managed by someone less homicidal.)

But he does agree with her and, moreover, doesn’t doubt her ability to get them there. “You bet, Bambi,” he says.

The Physical Kids is their lovechild, born out of too much free time, just enough molly, and a mutual recognition that college just wasn’t doing it for them. At the time Richard had been their only real friend, so of course they asked him to join. He suggesting adding Alice because she was an actual music major and, as it turned out, a kickass bassist. Penny had come up to them after one of their early gigs, said “You need a drummer if you’re gonna play,” and they hadn’t bothered to argue. But the beating heart of the band is still Eliot and Margo, Margo and Eliot.

Ultimately, Quentin fits in quite seamlessly, once he gains his footing and some confidence. There’s some tension with Penny at first, but that mostly smooths out once Josh declares a moratorium on playing, singing, or making reference to the discography of Taylor Swift. Margo actually does dote on Quentin, though she insists otherwise (“You’re projecting, Eliot”). Even quiet Alice bonds with him, and the two of them whisper happily in the corner during rehearsals.

And Eliot, well, Eliot is smitten, but he refuses to let that be a problem. Sure, Quentin’s cute, and sure, he’s talented, and sure, sometimes he’ll join Eliot for cigarette breaks, even though he doesn’t smoke, just to chat about nothing at all and smile shyly and make Eliot’s heart do cartwheels in his chest. But Eliot has no intention of making a grand declaration or whatever. He has no hopes of Decidedly Heterosexual Quentin requiting his feelings, and besides, Eliot’s never been much for serious relationships – not successful ones, anyway. He’s perfectly happy to bottle this shit right up and continue on as usual.

He does tell Margo, though, because he tells her everything, and she smiles fondly and croons, “You absolute dipshit.”

 

Quentin’s first gig is a small one, to ease him into it, but he’s still jittery, fingers tap-tap-tapping against his knee.

“If you don’t stop that I’ll kill you, and then we’ll have to find another keyboardist all over again,” growls Penny.

Fen is out front selling merch, so, without her there to diffuse the tension, Margo steps in and says, “Shut up, Penny.” She leans down towards Quentin, cradles his face in her hands, and whispers, “Don’t cock out on me tonight, Q.”

“Not helpful, Bambi,” Eliot sighs. “C’mon, Q. Smoke break.”

Quentin dutifully follows him outside and waits, hands scrunched in his pockets, as Eliot lights up. Smoke curls up from the cigarette, filling the space between them.

“You’re nervous about tonight.”

“Yeah. I’ve never really played in front of people before. I mean, except for you guys.”

“We don’t count as people. We’re a tier above everybody else.”

Quentin laughs at that, a short, sharp little “heh.”

Eliot takes another drag. “I was nervous for my first show, too.”

“Really? I can’t picture you nervous.”

“Yeah, no, I wasn’t. It just seemed like the thing to say. It actually felt natural as breathing.” He inspects the cigarette. “More natural, probably. My lungs are pretty fucked up at this point.”

The corner of Quentin’s lip twitches into a smile. “Thanks. Comforting.”

Eliot lets himself make full eye contact. He usually tries to avoid it because Quentin’s eyes are big enough to swallow you whole, but on this occasion it seems appropriate. “Look, you’ll be fine. You’re really good, and you get into the zone when you play. Like some kind of Jedi-master-whatsit. I didn’t actually see those movies.”

“Yeah, that wasn’t remotely relevant.”

Eliot rolls his eyes. “Just focus on the music. And if that doesn’t work, focus on me. I’m told I can be very distracting.”

Quentin smiles. A soft smile. “I can believe that.”

The door opens before Eliot can say something very stupid, and Josh is gesturing with his clipboard and saying, “Go time, boys!” Eliot takes one last, long drag, stubs out the cigarette on the ground, and holds the door open for Quentin with a flourish.

“After you, superstar,” he says.

Quentin is amazing. The Physical Kids are amazing. The crowd cheers and Eliot absorbs it into his skin, lets himself radiate with it.

 

They go out for drinks after the show to celebrate and two beers in, Quentin slides into the seat next to Eliot. He slots in there nicely, a solid weight against Eliot’s left side as Margo launches into yet another rendition of The Time Margo and Eliot Accidentally Got Elected Student Council Presidents.

“Spoiler alert: it goes poorly,” Eliot whispers to Quentin. “We tried to make good on our campaign promises and were impeached for filling a kiddie pool with champagne in the quad.”

Quentin laughs a little, but he looks serious, picking at the label of his beer bottle. “Eliot,” he says, low enough for only the two of them to hear. “Can I ask you something?”

“If it’s about the champagne, then yes, we did absolutely decimate the student council budget,” he starts, but Quentin shakes his head, so Eliot changes tack. “Of course. Shoot.”

"What do you think about inter-band dating?" he asks.

Elliot's mind and heart start exploding in thousands of directions, only to stop when he follows Quentin's gaze to see Alice smiling at him across the bar. It all clicks then: Quentin's reaction to first meeting her, the close quiet chats between the two of them, why she's opened up to him in a way she never had before.

Eliot wishes he were better than this, but he's not, so he says, "Well, it wouldn't be the smartest idea in the world. But it might be the dumbest."

"Right." And oh, poor Quentin looks so crestfallen.

"I mean, think about it," Eliot tries again, more gently. "What happens if you break up? What about the rest of the band? There's just too many variables."

"Yeah, yeah, that makes sense." Quentin stares down at the grimy surface of the table.

"I'm sorry, Q," Eliot says, and he really means it.

But Quentin still looks heartbroken and Eliot, feeling like he's just kicked a puppy, is overcome with a powerful need to not be here anymore. He presses a quick, apologetic kiss to Quentin’s temple, mutters “I need a cigarette” against his hair, and practically runs outside.

 

It turns out that Quentin’s best friend is the other half of Penny’s girlfriend’s indie duo, so they all go out for her birthday. It’s fun and drunk and messy, Eliot’s favorite kind of festivity. He dances with Margo and Fen and some hot guy whose name he couldn’t actually hear over the music, but who made it clear he’d definitely be willing to meet Eliot in the bathroom later that night. Josh is high out of his mind and heatedly debating something with Alice. Eliot spots Quentin’s friend Julia dancing with Penny, and then with her bandmate Kady, and then with both of them at once.

The only person who doesn’t seem to be having fun is Quentin, who only grows more and more morose as the night goes on. By the time Eliot slumps beside him at the bar, sweaty and exhausted by the throbbing beat and lights of the club, Quentin’s swigging gin like it’s beer. He leans heavily into Eliot’s shoulder and the words slosh out of him: how he first met Julia so long ago, how he always thought someday they’d find their ways into each other, how pretty her hair is when the sunlight hits it.

“Hypothetically,” he posits drunkenly, “if you were in love with your best friend in the whole world, and you knew they– they didn’t love you back, what’d you do? D’you tell them? Or just… you know. Keep it in?”

Eliot pries the glass from Quentin’s hand and takes a sip. “Hm. And casual sex is totally off the table?”

Quentin blinks up at him. “Yes. Very.”

“Well then, I’d try to move on,” Eliot lies.

 

Hot Guy from the club is named Mike, and he is Eliot’s boyfriend.

He is not originally intended to be Eliot’s boyfriend. Originally he is intended to be a one, maybe two night stand. But Mike is hot and nice and good in bed (or club bathrooms, as the case may be), and frankly the situation with Quentin is becoming untenable, so Eliot decides he might as well have a boyfriend, to keep himself distracted at least.

Margo laughs for far too long at the boyfriend announcement, catches her breath, then laughs some more.

“You could congratulate me on my happiness,” Eliot suggests.

“No offense,” says Margo, with full offense, “but you’re not really relationship material, El.”

It’s not a conversation Eliot wants to have in front of Quentin. Operation Repress All Feelings is still in full effect, but a small, selfish, unreasonable part of Eliot wants Quentin to believe that he could be capable of a real relationship, should such an opportunity arise.

“Aww, don’t pout,” Margo says, and flicks his lip. “I’m not trying to be mean. But when have you ever been in a relationship that worked out?”

“People change,” Eliot insists. “Maybe I’ve settled down. No more lavish and lascivious dalliances for me, I’m all about stability and long-term prospects now.”

Margo snorts.

“Mike seems cool,” Quentin pipes up, which doesn’t make Eliot feel remotely better.

 

Josh calls them in for a big big meeting and they meet Henry Fogg and it all changes.

“We want to sign you,” he says. “We want you to produce a full album by the end of the year.”

“Well, fuck me with a stick of salted butter,” Margo gasps, and Eliot’s too stunned to even ponder what that means.

There will need to be more meetings, of course, and a lawyer or two, but of course their answer is yes, yes, holy fuck _yes_.

Margo bounces out of the meeting on the tips of her toes, buzzing with energy, and the moment the door shuts behind them she grabs Eliot’s lapels in both fists. “It’s happening, El,” she says, her eyes shining bright. “We’re gonna be stars.”

He grins and and kisses her nose and says, “Fuck yeah we are, Bambi. We’re gonna blow their minds.”

The party that night is explosive.

Like any good party, Eliot only really knows less than half the people in the room. He presides over the bar for the first 45 minutes, mixing up specialty cocktails that become increasingly elaborate and eccentric as the night goes on, but eventually is overwhelmed by the thirsty crowd and retires to the couch.

Even Alice is dancing, her movements dorky but her face lit up with genuine joy. She dances up to Quentin with little “come hither” gestures and, shaking his head, he joins her. Eliot watches from his couch-throne, legs swung over Margo’s lap, as the two of them twist awkwardly in the middle of the crowd, laughing at themselves and each other and nothing in particular.

Julia and Kady show up an hour late, hands intertwined, and jump on Penny with delighted screams when they see him. Mike shows up a little after that and greets Eliot with a congratulatory kiss. It’s nice, but also a little embarrassing for reasons Eliot can’t and won’t articulate, so Eliot pulls away, hands him a shot glass, and says, “Less PDA, more drinking to my fame and success.”

Mike, a very good boyfriend, obliges, and they do the shot. And another and another.

Eliot slings his free arm around Quentin’s shoulders, Margo tucked against his other side. He kisses the tops of both of their heads and sings out, “We’re stars, baby!”

Quentin laughs, a happy clear beautiful laugh, and Eliot drunkenly, desperately wishes he could bottle the sound of it.

Instead the three of them sneak out onto the fire escape with Margo’s bong and cackle at the coughs cascading from Quentin’s throat after his first hit. Eliot ends up having to hold the bong up for him and afterwards Quentin slumps against his shoulder, giggling. The night air is crisp and cool but Eliot feels warm, sitting out there with the two of them, letting soft smoke slip out of his lips.

It gets fuzzier after that. When they come back to the party Mike is gone, and when Eliot tries to text him he finds his fingers too slippery to type. He has a drink – maybe it’s water, maybe it’s not. He dances with Fen. He sprawls on the couch and scratches Quentin’s head while Margo scratches his. The party thins out. The three of them stumble back towards Eliot’s room.

They lay on the bed, a tangled mass. They laugh at nothing. Margo strokes Quentin’s cheek. Margo and Quentin are kissing. Margo and Eliot are kissing. Eliot and Quentin are kissing.

Then Margo’s kissing Quentin’s neck and Eliot’s dragging off his shirt and Quentin’s sitting on his lap Margo holds him Eliot touches him Quentin gasps Eliot kisses it up there are hands everywhere and mouths everywhere and it’s all hot all skin all noise all feel and Margo writhes and Eliot groans and Quentin Quentin Quentin

 

When Eliot does drag himself back into consciousness, his arm is curled around an empty space where Quentin had been. He feels Margo pressed against his back, her fingers on his rib cage twitching in her sleep. There is movement at the end of the bed.

“Q?” he mumbles.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” says a distinctly non-Quentin voice. Eliot blinks and raises his head to see.

It’s Mike. He doesn’t look happy.

 

In a short life full of a disproportionate abundance of regrettable decisions, sleeping with Quentin may be the worst mistake Eliot's ever made.

Mike leaves, of course, and Eliot does feel genuinely bad about that. He was a good guy and deserved better. But in the grand scheme of things, that’s kind of the least of his worries.

They’re supposed to start working on their first full album, but tensions in the band are at an all-time high. Margo laughs it off at first, insists it’s just a glitch, but Alice glares daggers at Eliot anytime he walks into the room. Even Penny shakes his head and whistles, “You fucked up.” And Quentin – Quentin is gone.

He’ll be there, a physical presence, when he absolutely has to, but he stops coming out with them and doesn’t show up at game night. He won’t look at Eliot, let alone talk to him, let him try to make it right.

Eliot rehearses a million apologies in his own head, though none of them quite work because he still doesn’t know exactly what he did wrong – aside from cheating on his boyfriend, sleeping with his friend, and breaking his own rule against bandcest. They’d all been drunk, but it’s not like Quentin hadn’t seemed into it at the time. (Not that that’s the same as consent, but then again, they’d all been drunk.) Maybe it’s an issue of orientation, like Quentin feels that his heterosexuality has been threatened by Eliot. Or maybe it’s just that Eliot’s ruined Quentin’s chances with Alice.

To add insult to injury, Operation Repress All Feelings is in shambles. It’s a hell of a lot harder to bury his attraction when he knows how Quentin tastes, how he kisses, the noises he makes when Eliot drags his fingers down his chest. When he tries to sleep he can still see, clear as day, the image of Quentin on his lap, shuddering under his kiss, looking up at him with pupils blown wide with desire. It doesn’t make anything easier.

It also occurs to him that Quentin might be his best friend. (Margo, of course, has transcended the plane of friendship.) All romantic drama aside, Eliot finds himself surprisingly lonely in Quentin's conspicuous absence. This was never a problem before; it was always him and Margo against the world, and they'd always have each other. But now he stands outside, smoking by himself, and wonders at what point him and Margo stopped being enough.

 

Eliot goes away. Not, he maintains, because Alice told him to (although she did corner him and tell him it would be better if he weren’t around, and he’d responded with some choice unkind words). Nor because Fen gently suggested that tensions needed time to diffuse and maybe it’d be best if everyone had some space. He goes away on his own terms, even if those terms are just the fact that it hurts to be where Quentin is right now.

Margo sends him to her family’s summer home, which sounds lovely until he actually gets there. It’s a fucking farmhouse – a bougie, farmless one, but a farmhouse nonetheless. Within five minutes of unpacking his things, Eliot remembers how much he hates being alone, and realizes this was a terrible, terrible mistake.

There’s nothing to do in the quiet little town of Bumfuck Nowhere. Eliot goes to the farmer’s market, because apparently that’s all there is, and buys some fresh peaches and many bottles of wine. He tries to read, but the books on the shelves are far too long and boring. Margo sends him updates on the songwriting progress, which instills less comfort than FOMO, and after two days he stops checking his phone. He watches Netflix and drinks wine and dances naked all over the house and drinks wine and listens to the complete works of David Bowie and drinks wine and screams just because he can and drinks wine and tries to forget about Quentin. And he drinks wine.

One day he wanders into the kitchen to grab a peach and finds that the last one left has gone bad. It sits alone in the fruit bowl, grey-white mold crusting its fuzzy skin, and for some reason that’s what finally really gets to him. In the secure knowledge that he is safely alone, but also that he is terribly hopelessly alone, he sinks into a kitchen chair and cries and cries.

 

He comes back after being gone a week and a half and the room goes quiet the minute he arrives. He can feel the eyes of the band and Josh boring into him as he walks to the other end of the room, picks up Margo’s guitar, and sits down with it. He allows himself only a brief look at Bambi herself and she smiles softly, encouragingly.

“Sorry about running off to the wasteland,” he begins. “I’ve been, uh, dealing with some shit lately. But a few days ago I had an intensely emotional experience with a piece of fruit—not, like, a Call Me By Your Name sort of situation, let's not get any wrong ideas—and it brought me a kind of clarity, so. I wrote a thing about it.” And he plays.

The song is called “Peaches” and he did not want to write it. And once he’d written it, he definitely had not wanted to share it with anyone. But it wouldn’t leave him, and he’d figured the only way out was to get it off his chest (because honestly, what does he have left to lose?) so here he is.

He has never had a single qualm about performing in his life, but as he sings this song he feels nakeder than naked, like someone stripped off his clothes and his skin too while they were at it. His tongue is heavy in his mouth, his fingers clumsy against the strings, his armpits hot and sweaty. He keeps his gaze laser-focused on the guitar so he won’t have to see anyone’s face. But he can’t help but picture their expressions: will they be pitying? Embarrassed? Derisive? And what will Quentin say when he realizes that Eliot is pouring out his heart and guts, raw and trembling, an open target, just for him?

The song ends and Eliot still can’t look up but thank god he doesn’t have to, instead Margo’s arms are wrapped around him and someone’s clapping and he clears his throat and says as nonchalantly as possible, “So anyway, that’s something,” and puts away the guitar.

 

He flees outside shortly after that, although his exit is much more composed than he feels. His hands are still shaking as he lights up a cigarette. He takes a long drag and slowly exhales the tension in his shoulders into the sky.

“Eliot?” someone asks, and he jumps, dropping his cigarette.

“Jesus! A little warning next time?” He stamps it out hastily with his foot, and then turns around to see Quentin.

“Hey,” says Quentin.

“Hey yourself,” says Eliot.

There’s long, awkward beat as they both try to remember how to face each other.

“I liked your song,” Quentin says. “It was really good.”

“Thanks,” Eliot says, because he can’t bring himself to ask, _do you know what it means/can you forgive me for how I feel/could you possibly somehow ever feel the same_?

Quentin sighs. “I’m sorry things got so fucked up. I was being selfish, and caught up in my own feelings, and I was a shitty friend.” He rests against the wall, head leaning back on brick, his usual place and position. Eliot forgot how much he missed having him there.

Quentin takes a deep breath, and continues, “I didn’t realize how much Mike meant to you. I mean, I knew you liked him, I guess it just didn’t click how much everything hurt you until that song. I just wanted to apologize, for what happened with Mike and for my part in it.”

Eliot feels like his heart skipped a beat a minute ago and can’t get back on track. “What?” he manages.

“I just want you to be happy,” Quentin says helplessly. “I didn’t– I don’t want to be responsible for ruining the good things in your life. Listen, Eliot, you’re one of my best friends–”

“You’re mine,” Eliot mumbles, an impulse. But everything’s catching up to him now and he can’t suppress the wild laughter that comes bubbling out of him. It’s not even that funny. He feels like he’s been waiting all day for this big bomb to drop and some truck has just smashed into him instead.

It’s Quentin’s turn to ask, “What?”

“The song wasn’t about Mike.”

“Oh,” says Quentin, and his brow scrunches in horrified thought. “Margo?”

This makes Eliot laugh harder, and he has to steady himself against the wall with his arm. “No, you beautiful nincompoop,” he wheezes because, frankly, at this point, why the hell not.

“Oh,” says Quentin, and then his eyes go wide, and he says, “ _Oh_.”

“Yeah,” says Eliot. The weight of what he’s done has only just begun to sink, a cold congealed lump in the pit of his stomach, when Quentin surges forward and kisses him. It’s a gentle kiss, ever so soft, just a tiny flutter of lips at the corner of his mouth.

Quentin pulls back and his eyes are searching Eliot’s for confirmation, reassurance. And Eliot knows he should say something, knows this is important, but he can’t think of a single goddamn word. Instead he simply reaches for him, kisses him back, and pours his whole soul into it.

 

They’re back in the bar after recording the last song of the album.

It’s been a few weeks, and the only one who knows about Quentin and Eliot is Margo. She’d alternated between delight and fury when Eliot told her, congratulating him, then warning, “If this breaks up the band I’ll fucking kill you,” then hugging him again. She’d been the one to insist on keeping it under wraps until the album was finished.

And Eliot understood, really. For the first two weeks, dating Quentin was the scariest thing he’d ever done. He kept waiting to fuck it all up, to scare Quentin off, to ruin this one really good thing in his life. But it turned out this was too good for even Eliot to break. And once he realized that, letting himself love Quentin was really the easiest thing in the world.

Margo buys them all shots and insists upon a toast. “To The Physical Kids!” she cries, and they all follow suit.

Quentin slams down his glass with the rest of them and sneaks a glance, a little furtive smile, over to Eliot, who can’t help but reach under the table to intertwine their fingers.

Margo lifts up another drink. “And a second toast,” she announces, “to Eliot. I don’t want to call you my better half, because that’s misogynist and, as we all know, not really true. But you’re definitely my other half. I couldn’t be here today without you.” And her smile’s still fixed but a bit of emotion has started to creep into her voice, so she raises the glass hurriedly and says, “To us!” before downing it.

“Aw, Bambi,” Eliot says, and gets up to kiss her. “I love you too.”

“You’re so embarrassing,” she says, and bats him away. “Go back to your boyfriend.”

“ _Boyfriend??_ ” Fen squeaks, and all eyes turn to Quentin, who waves sheepishly.

Alice punches Eliot’s arm. “Fucking finally,” she sighs. “You better take care of him.”

“I can take care of myself,” Quentin insists, and Alice and Eliot both scoff.

Then Eliot does another toast: to his band and his Margo and their future, to being stars, to this night in this bar, to being with his friends and celebrating success, to the smoke break he and Q will take in an hour (in which there will be no smoking whatsoever), to love and peaches and other sappy things, to tomorrow and all the tomorrows after that.

“Nice toast,” whispers Quentin, grinning wide, when Eliot settles back in his seat again.

“Hush now,” says Eliot, and he leans over and kisses the boy he loves.

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time posting in (holy shit) 6 years, so apologies for any mistakes!
> 
> title from Under Pressure, because I can't believe the show tried to make this line about Alice and Quentin, so instead I've decided to rehabilitate it and return it to its proper context: these two boys being stupid about their feelings


End file.
